


jamais vu

by touchstarved



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Break Up, F/M, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Prompt Fill, Reader-Insert, This is kind of trash bc i wrote it in one go with minimal editing, but here have some sad, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-10-02 00:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20454608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchstarved/pseuds/touchstarved
Summary: “Wha - come on, sweetheart. Surely you didn’t think you’d keep my interest forever?”





	jamais vu

**Author's Note:**

> requested by @booknerd1234 on tumblr: "Can I have Crowley angst? Like he breaks up with reader to protect her type."

If someone had told you a year ago that you’d end up head-over-heels for a grumpy, sardonic, secretly-soft literal-demon with the fashion sense of a washed-up rock star…

Well. Let’s just say that even now, waking up in said demon’s bed, you _ still _have trouble believing it. Any of it.

You roll over with a yawn, flinging one arm out in search of him. But your hand only lands on the mattress. No skin, no warmth of another body next to you.

“Crowley?” You pull the sheet over the gooseflesh on your arms, your toes curling as you pad out of the room. 

You find him in the...you hesitate to call it a living room; it’s about as homey as a prison office, after all, with a thick grey slab of desk, a weirdly ornate chair, and a sketch of the Mona Lisa. (But, hey, at least it has a TV.) 

He was there, anyways, slouched in the chair-throne thing, fully clothed with his cheek in his hand. 

“There you are.” You bent down to bury your face in his shoulder, then resurfaced to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Morning. I was thinking we could go to that little cafe down the street for breakfast, the one with the raspberry croissants? Maybe meet up with Aziraphale? Or we could always grab something to go, if you’re not in a sitting moos, whichever works.”

No response.

“Hello?” You frowned, hoisting yourself up onto the desk to face him. “Earth to Crowley.” 

He blinked, as though startling awake, and then finally brought his eyes up to meet yours. Just for a moment before he looked away again, and brought up a hand to snap. With a start, you realized you were, quite suddenly, fully clothed yourself. 

“I think you should go.”

That stung a bit, you weren’t going to lie, but you couldn’t fault him for needing space. Lord knows he’d given you a wide enough berth on the few occasions you’d asked. 

“Okay?” You patted your back pocket; sure enough, he’d miracled your keys and phone there, as well. “Cool. Thanks. I mean, sorry, I just...I’ll head out. Are you okay? Do you want me, is there anything I can do? If you just need some alone time, though, I totally—”

“For good.” Another half-glance up, and then he directs his gaze straight ahead. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

You don’t -

You can’t -

How are you supposed to _ respond _ to that?

“Just like that?” you ask quietly. The hem of your shirt between your fingers, twisting and twisting and _ twisting _ at the fabric until it’s stretched out for good. It doesn’t help, doesn’t ground you at all. Not after the complete curveball he just threw at you, and especially not for what he says next:

“Wha - come on, sweetheart. Surely you didn’t think you’d keep my interest forever?”

The tears come without warning then, sharp and sudden and threatening to spill over. “No.” You look up, blinking them back with a chuckle. “No, of course not.”

You hate yourself. Just a little.

Just for not putting up a fight.

Because it makes sense. It hurts, but he’s right, he is _ right _—he’s been on Earth for, what, five thousand years? Six? 

The fact that you’ve held his attention for this long should be miracle enough. 

And yet—you recall last night. His lips, tenderly pressing against every inch of you. His hands in your hair, on your waist, his fingers intertwined with yours as he pressed into you. His eyes alight, wild with mischief and desire, and so adoring you could have cried. And you stop at the door, one hand against the frame, because this isn’t right, this isn’t Crowley, this doesn’t make any sense. 

Six thousand years be damned; you know love when you feel it.

You turn around slowly. He doesn’t move. “I’m not leaving.”

“(Y/N) - ” he starts, but you shake your head. 

“Not until you tell me why. Tell me _ honestly _ why.” You walk back to the chair, back to _ him _. Touch your knees to the ground, your cheek to his thigh. His hand slips into your hair, reluctant but wanting, and you meet it with your own and squeeze. “Please.”

You look up and see the mask beginning to crumble. A softening of the eyes. A trembling of the lower lip (that he’d never admit to).

But he still refuses to meet your gaze.

“For fuck’s sake, at least _ look _ at me.”

He does. And his eyes are watery as yours, and he _ breaks. _ Draws you into his arm, onto his lap, cradled against his chest as your lips meet. You pour everything you have into the kiss, all the doubts, the hurt, the wanting, and the love, the love, the _ love _, until even an occult being could sense the strength of your emotions.

Finally, you both calm. You curl up, face buried in his shoulder.

“Turns out I’m in Hell’s bad books at the moment,” he finally murmurs into your hair.

You laugh, nervous. “What, like they have any other kind?”

“I’m serious, (Y/N),” he snaps. You sober up immediately. “I’m not safe here, which means you’re not safe. Which means you need to leave.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“(Y/N) - ”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Then you’ll get yourself killed.”

“You can’t force me.” You find his hand and slide yours into it. “There’s nowhere for me to go.”

“Your old flatmate lives twenty minutes from here, I can just m - ”

“That’s not what I mean!” You close your eyes, frustrated. “There’s nowhere _ for _ me. There’s nobody else.”

He hears the heartbreak in your voice. He does, you know he does, he has to, but he shakes his head all the same. “Can’t risk losing you.”

You pull back. “All this means is that you lose me sooner!”

“No. Er, I mean—yes, I can’t…we can’t…” He gives up after a few seconds of stuttering. Clasps your hands between both of his, like he’s making a promise. “But I can keep watching over you. I’ll still be there to...to make th—”

“So I lose you, then,” you snapped. “I’m supposed to just go about my life knowing that you can see me, and I can’t see you, and I’ll never see you again.” _ You _ shake your head this time, rather vehemently. “You can’t expect me to do that. You _ can’t _.”

“I don’t.”

“So?” You lean back and take him in - sharp cheekbones, aching eyes, resignation written into every wrinkle. “What now?”

He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Crowley - ”

“Shh.” He silences you with a hand on either side of your face, his thumbs running feather-light up and down your cheeks. “‘Love you.”

“I love you, too.” You place your hands over his as he brings you in for another kiss - short, this time. Sweet. Followed by another, equally tender kiss to your forehead. “I really do.”

He smiles sadly. “I know.”

He snaps before you even realize he’s tugged his hand out from under yours, and everything goes black.

* * *

If someone had told you a year ago that you’d end up head-over-heels for a grumpy, sardonic, secretly-soft literal-demon with the fashion sense of a washed-up rock star…

Well. Of course you wouldn’t have believed them. But you might have taken the story with faint amusement, and more than a little wistful laughter.

You roll over with a yawn, flinging one arm out in search of a pillow, a blanket, something. But your hand only lands on the mattress. No pillow, no blanket. Certainly no warmth of another body next to you. 

The ground, however, is surprisingly toasty beneath your feet. You make quick work of dressing all the same. Head down the street to that cafe you like to breakfast at alone, the one with the raspberry croissants. 

And if, by some chance, a rusty-haired stranger were to give you an extra long glance as you passed him by, you wouldn’t notice at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Lolol writing this from the basement of my dorm building because it really is THAT time of year. Sorry for any OOC-ness, I am REALLY struggling to get Crowley's voice down...hope you enjoyed anyway! :) Comments/kudos are love.


End file.
